


To Be in the World

by covertius



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, Post-Kings Rising
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 15:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covertius/pseuds/covertius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erasmus settles in to his new life in Patras, finding comfort and pleasure in serving Torveld as he was trained to do.  But when a very familiar envoy comes from King Damianos to discuss the abolition of slavery, Erasmus must decide what he really wants from his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Garden of Delights

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: due to the nature of Akielon slavery, this fic has major dubious consent issues. Also, references to more unambiguous rapes that occurred in the past. So proceed with caution.

Torveld would not make full use of Erasmus in the way that he was intended. This was, Erasmus knew, because he was a kind master.  Torveld knew that he had been hurt ( _broken_ , said a voice in his head,  _tainted.  scarred._ Erasmus pushed it away; Torveld did not like it when he thought of himself like that), and did not want to hurt him further by opening old wounds.

Erasmus had always expected that he would receive pleasure from the act.  Slaves honored their masters with mutual pleasure, their own ecstasy displaying their master's skill - the only way a slave could give praise to the one who owned him.  And Damianos, the master he had been trained for, was known to be more than usually skilled in the giving of pleasure and to take more satisfaction than was usual in the delight of pleasing his partner.  Erasmus had looked forward to his first night with thrilled anticipation (and just a little anxiety.)

He had received no pleasure from the things that had been done to him in Vere, and he suspected that his master was right in thinking that he would receive more pain than pleasure now, both from the bad memories and from any damage that may have been done to the secret places of him that only a master should touch.  But what Torveld did not seem to understand was how much Erasmus wanted it regardless.  The act was a synecdoche of what a slave was:  the gift of oneself to another.  It had been taken from him, many times, by men who did not know what they took or appreciate the privilege of it.  But now he had a master who was worthy of him, a prince who was great even among princes, yet who still took the time to care for someone as low as Erasmus.  He admired Torveld's position and status, his reputation for honor and fair dealing, the way he treated others.  Moreover, Torveld aroused Erasmus, with his strong arms and gentle touch, with his commanding voice and careful words, with his handsome face and appreciative gaze when he looked on Erasmus's submission.  Erasmus wanted to give himself to Torveld fully, and ideally his pleasure in the gift would be something they would both enjoy, but ultimately it was irrelevant:  it was the gift that was important.

But it was not a slave's place to argue with his master, and how could he explain this to Torveld if he could not speak?

Each night when the handlers took him to bathe, Erasmus asked them to prepare him, just in case.

(After several weeks, he became accustomed to it and stopped experiencing the preparation as a brief period of torture and panic.  Erasmus was pleased.  That was far less time than he thought.)

* * *

"What is our new master like?" asked Nephele one day, as they sat in the caravan.

"But you know him," said Erasmus, confused.  They had been travelling toward Patras for days now, stopping as guests in keeps (mostly) or at inns (sometimes), or making camp in silk tents under the wide sky.  The slaves, not riders, were transported together during the day, separate from their master and his men.  But when they stopped for the night, the group came together.  All of the slaves had performed before the company, and taken their turn serving their master and his hosts at table.

"Not the way you do," said Nephele, glancing around that none but the other slaves should see her boldness, "Not - privately."

Erasmus blushed.  It was true, what she said:  only Erasmus had been called on to serve Torveld at the baths and in bed.  This was unusual.  A slave was the sole property of the master, reserved for them alone unless the master should choose to lend them out, and could be touched by no one else without permission.  But even the most beloved of favorites expected to share their master - with other slaves, with free lovers, with their arranged spouse.  It was the way of things.  For Erasmus to be singled out like this was an honor he did not quite know what to do with.

"He is - he is so good," said Erasmus, blushing further, "Very gentle and kind.  He asks only for easy things, and gives as much as he takes.  We are all lucky to be given to such a master."

"That's all very well, as long as he keeps us," said Naubolus, "But why would he bother to when he's only enjoying you.  It's an awful expense, keeping twenty-four slaves fed, housed, and clothed just to take your pleasure of one of them.  We know you'll end up cozy in the master's bed, but what's to become of the rest of us when we finally arrive in Patras?"

Erasmus wondered, not for the first time, what the other slaves had done to earn their transportation to Vere, and immediately felt ashamed of the thought.  Yes, Naubolus struck him as peevish and malcontented, unsuited for the calm submission of a slave's role - but was Erasmus himself any better, having been held aside for the prince, and yet tainted again and again and again?  He was no less ill-suited for his original purpose than any of them, and he had still been rewarded far beyond what he deserved.  He was in no place to judge anyone.

"None of us have anything to fear from him," Erasmus insisted, "He is a good and considerate master.  He will not harm any of us."

"Our master in Vere did no harm to any of us either, at least, not directly," said Nephele, "None of us ever saw him.  What we fear is more abandonment and neglect."

As she spoke, her hands hovered protectively over her stomach, where the sailors had beaten her with rocks in fear of a pregnancy that might never have existed, and he felt more ashamed.

"Patras is not like Vere," Erasmus told them, "Slaves are honored there, like in Akielos.  I have been promised that.  And we remain under our master's protection, however little he uses us.  None of you have been touched by his own guards, have you?"

He looked around the caravan, and no one spoke.

"I'm sure he has a plan for all of us, when we reach home."

Many of the slaves nearby him nodded, but he could see uncertainty in their eyes nonetheless.  He wondered if it was his duty now to tell Torveld that the other slaves would be easier if he touched them, as the strong slave in Vere had appealed to his own master for Erasmus and the others, saving them all.  But surely it was not a slave's place to tell his master who he should and should not sleep with?

"I will ask him about it tonight," Erasmus promised.  Questions were allowed, in the soft private time after a service, so long as they were not impertinent.  Surely any inquiry regarding the welfare of his fellow slaves would be appropriate and well-received.

And if the decision left him with a bit of selfish gladness, well - no one need know that but him.

* * *

There was a bed.  A large, comfortable bed in a large, comfortable keep, where Erasmus had sung with pride before the lords in the great hall and served his master in the baths with slow, caressing touches.  The bed had a thick, firm mattress for Torveld to sit on the edge of and large, soft pillows to cushion Erasmus's knees as he knelt between his master's thighs.  Erasmus had been taken from Akeilos before his training had been complete, when his instruction in the arts of pleasuring had barely begun, and he knew he was deficient as a bedslave.  But he did not feel deficient now, with his lips wrapped around his master's length, hand clasping where he could not reach; and Torveld panting and writhing above him, hands fisted in the sheets and making the most gratifying moans in response to Erasmus's tentative experiments into "what he ought to be doing with his tongue."

Torveld came shouting Erasmus's name, and Erasmus drank him down (his time in Vere had not furthered his instruction in most of the ways he needed, but it had at least provided him the skill of swallowing), licking the last drops of him as he went soft, then drew back smiling.  Torveld reached down and pulled him up, onto the bed and into an embrace, and Erasmus was excited to wonder what was going to happen next.  Would Torveld give him his sword-calloused hand, or invite him to rut against his muscled body, as he did sometimes when they were both hard and wanting?  Torveld drew him into a kiss, soft and tender the way all his kisses were, and Erasmus made a happy sound deep in his throat.  Then Torveld was maneuvering him to sit on the edge of the bed and sinking down himself onto the pillow on the floor and - oh, this was a high honor, one of the highest a slave could be given, and Erasmus, already flushed with pleasure, blushed still deeper at the sight of it.

Torveld slid his hands over Erasmus's thighs, fingers gently brushing the edges of the scars that Erasmus had long forgotten to be ashamed of.  "Tap my shoulder," he said, "When you are about to come," right before he slid his mouth over Erasmus's tip.

And Erasmus was suddenly terrified.  He had not been allowed even to touch himself in Akeilos, and he had not enjoyed it when men had touched him in Vere.  These last few weeks with Torveld constituted his sole experience with orgasms, and how was he supposed to tell when he was about to come when he had so little practice with the sensation?  And Torveld's hands caressing his hips, the scratch of his beard as it brushed against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, most of all the wet heat of his mouth as it engulfed him, tongue stroking at the sensitive spots, it all felt so good -  _so good - **so good**_ \- that surely he could come at any moment.  He thought of the shame of spilling unexpectedly into his master's mouth, tainting him with the seed of a slave, and as Torveld pressed his tongue over Erasmus's slit, he gave a full-body shudder and grasped reflexively at Torveld's shoulder.

Torveld looked confused to be stopped so soon, but he pushed Erasmus gently back onto the bed and reached for the oil on the table beside it.

"You did not like it," he asked, as he slid his oiled hand between Erasmus's legs.

"I did," said Erasmus, open as he always was in bed, and ashamed, so ashamed, that here he had a good, kind master who offered him pleasure and he was too broken even to accept it, "I enjoyed it so much.  It was just - just-"

"Too much?" Torveld guessed, and Erasmus nodded.

"You are a good slave," he said, as he stroked Erasmus gently, "Obedient and brave.  You have been betrayed and injured by those who should have protected you, and you are still strong enough to give your master such pleasure."

He reached back and teased the place that lay between the two forbidden spots of pleasure, where Erasmus could not touch himself, which always made him tingle.

"There is no shame in not being ready for something yet, and we can always try again later.

The light, teasing touches stopped and he took Erasmus in a firm grasp, stroking his hardness until he finished with a wordless cry.  Erasmus cleaned them both up, then settled into Torveld's arms, exchanging sweet, short kisses as they drifted off.  Erasmus let his master's touch comfort him until sleep claimed him.

* * *

The palace at Bazal was the third Erasmus had seen, though in Ios he only saw the slave quarters, and his impressions of the palace at Arles were confined mostly to the pleasure places, like the gardens and the ring.  At Bazal they entered through the main gates and were brought in triumph to the Great Hall.  The palace here was more obviously a fortress than either Erasmus has seen before, built tower-shaped, of thick gray stone, with square crenellations adorning the parapets that lined the roof.  Inside it was much the same: dim narrow hallways, low-roofed and strongly built, with none of the intricate carvings or repeated patterns favored in Vere.  In Arles, everything was decorated and ornate; in Ios, almost nothing was, all clean lines and open spaces, white marble and natural light, the wind from the sea.  Neither kind of beauty could be found in the architecture of Patras, but here and there the eye was drawn to a single element of decoration - a fine tapestry on a plain wall - that would have been lost among the complicated ostentation of Vere and would have obtruded on the simple grandeur of Akielos.  Here they shined, beauty enhanced by the plain setting.  If Prince Torveld was given no new great mission now that peace with Vask had been achieved, this palace could be Erasmus's home for some time, and he found he rather liked the idea of being one of the delicate adornments of this strong place.

In the Great Hall, King Torgeir embraced his brother, and loudly admired the prize that he had brought back from Vere.  All of the slaves fell in unison into their submissive poses, Erasmus concentrating on his lines, muscles remembering how to lower his head to present a graceful arch to his neck, how to kneel with his legs positioned  _just so_ to draw the eye to the fine bones of his ankle.

"Every mission I grant you, you exceed expectations.  I send you to fight border skirmishes, you broker me a peace.  I send you to negotiate trade, and you return with treasure in hand."

"Wait until you see them at the feast tonight," said Torveld, "The Veretians had no idea of their value."

 

Erasmus performed first, with the kithara in his lap and the eyes of the hall upon him.  He had been taught a handful of Patran songs in Akielos in case he should be called to entertain ambassadors, and he had worked on the road to remember them, practicing what snatches he could recall over and over until the next measures began to return to him.  Afterwards, he had tried to teach the other slaves, but not all of them had been meant to serve in the king's hall and the high table, and many were not trained in music and song.  He had taught those he could what he could, but the slaves had together agreed that Erasmus was the best of them, and ought to be the one performing before the food was served, when all attention was on the music and there were no distractions.  His skill would show all of them in the best possible light.

So Erasmus sang in his high clear voice, moving his fingers over the strings to the once unfamiliar melody that he now knew better than the songs of his home.  He hoped that the court would not be offended when they ran out and had to offer the same songs over again, or offer some in Akielon.  When the servers came in from the kitchens, he passed the kithara off to Astacos and moved to serve with the others at the high table.

"You've taken the best of the lot for yourself, I see," King Torgeir said, as Erasmus knelt by Torveld's chair, arranging cheese, bread, and grapes into delicate mouthfuls and feeding them to him one by one.  Erasmus kept his eyes lowered and seemed not to notice the praise, as befitted a slave, but inwardly he preened at being noticed.

"He was intended for the high court in Akielos, before Prince Damianos's death.  The Veretians did not know how to appreciate him."

"But you do."

"I have rarely appreciated a gift so much, or so often."

They grinned at each other over his head as Erasmus discreetly signaled to one of the servers, drawing over a platter of pheasant with chestnuts.  All night Torveld's favorite delicacies had been appearing in front of him before he had seen that they were available, and Erasmus did not think he had noticed yet.  That was the goal of serving at table, to be so subtle in one's ministrations that the master was left feeling more than usually pleased and satisfied, yet not quite knowing why.

"You perform the songs of our nation quite well," said the King, and Erasmus debased himself still more.

"This slave is beneath your notice."

The King hummed, and Erasmus could feel his eyes upon him.  Torgeir turned back to his brother.

"If he were a girl, I'd feel quite jealous."

"There are many fine women among them, too.  I'll give you your pick of the rest of them tonight, as my gift to you."

"I'll be pleased to take that offer."

The King was gazing at Nephele now, who leaned quite close to him as he took spiced meat from her hand.  Reaching down for another morsel, she met Erasmus's eyes under their masters' arms, and blushed.

* * *

 Erasmus could feel something changing between them in the first week at the castle in Bazal.  Their bedplay had become more intense, the constant gentleness he'd become accustomed to now became interspersed with fierce passion and playful roughness, each harsh touch followed by a tender drawing back, as if Torveld was checking Erasmus's reaction.  His hands became more roving too, caressing farther back over the area he'd been avoiding, eventually exploring with oiled fingers the place that had been prepared for him and finding the secret to Erasmus's pleasure, inside.  Torveld was building up to something.

Erasmus looked forward with pleased anticipation to being taken, to finally fulfilling his true purpose (especially after that first night Torveld's fingers had breached him, and he found more pleasure from the touch there than he had imagined, even after all these weeks of learning what his body was capable of.)  But he was not so pleased, on the tenth night in Torveld's own rooms in Bazal, when the slave attendants took his silks from him and left him waiting naked on Torveld's bed, his hands bound above him with a gold ribbon.  The ribbon was less a binding than a test of submission: the threads so slippery and the knots so loose that the tiniest shifting could make them fall apart, and the slave must keep perfectly still to keep it there until it pleased the master to remove it.  He knew what this was, and he finished the position himself, stretching his body out and crossing his ankles.  This - the waiting; the ribbon; the form, supine among the sheets, mimicking bondage - marked the beginning of a First Night.

He knew what Torveld was trying to do: give him what he should have had, return what had been taken from him in the bowels of that awful ship.  But even a prince could not take back the time that had passed.  Erasmus was no longer the pure young man, innocent even of his own touch, who had waited in erotic self-denial for the first night of ownership, of _claiming,_ that would change him forever, and he could not go back.  Those things had happened to him.  Nothing in the world would change it.  And this pretense, this  _parody_ , of what he had deserved, what he could never have - it made everything present, and he was drowning in bad memories and loss.

Erasmus had a good, kind master.  One who thought of his comfort and tried to give him things the master thought he would like.  He would not spurn his master's care by failing to appreciate his consideration.  He tried to call back the shivers that had run through his body those hot nights in Ios, when he'd lain on his pallet in the training quarters, imagining this.  And when that heightened sense of the sensual failed to return to him, he cast his mind to the recent past, to the nights he'd spent with Torveld, discovering the joys of his body.  The memories mingled uncomfortably with the darker ones from Vere and before, but he closed his eyes and focused on each sensation until his body began to respond and he finally looked the part of a proper slave, eager for his master.

When Torveld finally came into the room, Erasmus was satisfied with the picture he must present.  His form was perfect, his expression was happy and welcoming, and he was hard between his legs.  Torveld looked on him with dark arousal, and ran a caressing hand down Erasmus's body from the shoulder to the thigh.  Erasmus arched into the touch like he always did, and he was sure that none of his discomfort showed in any part of him.

"What's wrong?" asked Torveld, sitting on the bed beside him.

"There is nothing wrong with this one," said Erasmus, "This slave lives to serve."

"I know you do.  So if I ask you what is troubling you, you will not disobey your master by hiding it from him."  He gentled his words with a stroke to Erasmus's cheek, but Erasmus felt the rebuke go through him.  He shifted onto his side, so he could gaze up at Torveld more comfortably, and it was easier to speak honestly outside the ritual position.

"I cannot give you a First Night.  I am not untouched."  Then, shyly, "I am not even untouched by you."  For Erasmus felt instinctively that this would seem less of a farce if it could be his first night of pleasure, his first night with a true master.

"No.  But this will be our first night, together like this.  Your first night doing this for a master who owns you fully, who values what he has in you."

"That is a great thing," said Erasmus carefully, "But it is not a First Night."

"I thought it would make you more comfortable.  What would make this easier for you?"

Erasmus hesitated.  His instinct was that it was not the slave's place to discuss such things with the master, that it was the master's comfort that was important, but he had already been corrected once for giving the conditioned responses instead of full honesty.

"It would help if you - talked to me, I think.  Any words, so long as it is your voice.  And keep the lamps burning, so I can see your face."

Torveld nodded.  He gestured to the gold ribbon.  "Should we dispense with all this, and come together as we are?"

Erasmus considered.  The memories had settled back into the dark place at the back of his mind.  He felt comfortable now, after that brief talk with Torveld.  It was amazing how comfortable just a few words with his master could make him.  And behaving like this was a real First Night seemed more a game now, and less of a cruel joke.  A game that might be fun - or, at least, familiar.  Expected.

Erasmus rolled onto his back and returned his hands and feet to the pose of submission.  (The art of the knot-making must not be as well known in Patras, for the ribbon did not fall off, even after all that moving.)

"This slave is pleased to serve you."

Torveld examined his face, and he must have been satisfied with whatever he found there, for he stood before Erasmus and removed his own clothes.  (The only time in a slave's life when they could expect their master to put on such a display.)  Erasmus had removed Torveld's clothes for him a hundred times before, and been pleased with the body he found underneath them, but there was something particularly thrilling about watching Torveld's own hands pull the tunic up over his head and his pants down to his feet, revealing his chest and his thighs and - other things - for Erasmus to see and enjoy as he lay there, panting and still.  His skin burned with the need for Torveld to touch him.

The mattress dipped as Torveld knelt on either side of his thighs, straddling him, and he became aware of little whimpering noises a moment before he realized he was making them.  Torvelt cupped his head and pulled him up for a kiss, deep and slow.

"Good?" he asked, and Erasmus nodded.

"You are so beautiful," he said, as he reached for the oil by the bed and began exploring him with his fingers.

There was more praise, repetitive and confused, turning nonsensical as he spread his fingers apart, stretching him.  Erasmus had memorized the best love poetry in his nation's history, sung it again and again in the training ground, but none of it seemed more beautiful and meaningful than the stumbling words of his master, awkwardly speaking where he would be silent because his slave had asked to hear his voice.

He pressed that place inside him and Erasmus jumped with a cry, then the fingers were withdrawn and there was the smell of more oil being poured.  Erasmus felt the sensation of his ring of muscles being breached, familiar, but also new, for it had never happened so slowly before.  Without his mind's agreement, his body started to tense.

"Easy, easy - Just relax - Yes, like that - Now bear down - Good."  And Torveld was sheathed fully inside him.

It felt - well, a little uncomfortable, because of the stretch, and he could feel his muscles adjusting as his body got used to the intrusion.  But it did not hurt, not really.  He had expected that there would be the same amount of pain that there was before, only this time it would be worth it, because it would be mingled with the pleasure he always felt when Torveld touched him.  All at once he was angry, almost for the first time, at what had been done to him.  Erasmus was obedient, Erasmus didn't protest or fight back, Erasmus would have given anything the masters asked for if the command came in a firm tone.  There was no need to hurt him.  He had thought the pain was just a part of what happened, but now he saw that that was not true.  A little time, a little patience, and it could have been made this easy for him, but they simply  _had not bothered -_

"Erasmus?" Torveld said, voice trembling with the strain of holding back, and Erasmus was back in the present again, grounded by his master's voice.

"Yes," said Erasmus, hardly knowing what the question was,  _"Yes."_  And Torveld began to move.

It was like nothing Erasmus had ever experienced before, not even in his most pleasant nights with Torvelt, where delightful rhythms and friction were hardly strange.  There was something so intimate about the way they were connected, moving together as Erasmus pushed back against each thrust, striving to take Torveld deeper.   _My master is inside me,_ he thought, and the thought was so thrilling he barely contained it from spilling out of him in words.  The motion itself was perfect, gentle enough not to harken any unpleasant flashbacks, but hard enough to  _feel_ , and each thrust found his pleasure place and sent bursts of ecstasy running through him.

Torveld was holding himself up above Erasmus with one arm - one arm - while the other stroked up and down his body, feeling the bones of his ribs and playing with his nipples, sending new waves of delight through him.  He was alternating between continued murmured words of happiness and praise, and pressing hot kisses to every inch of Erasmus's skin he could reach - the collarbone, on the downstroke of the thrust, when he had almost pulled out; just able to reach his lips when he pushed most deeply inside.  Erasmus's neck was wet from his lips and rubbed red with the familiar scratch of his beard.

And Erasmus knew that such attentions were the slave's job to provide for the master, if not solely than at least equivalently, but he could not bring himself out of the pleasure rocking through him enough to think of what he might do to make this better for Torveld, much less do any of the things he thought of.  Even when Torveld reached his free hand up and pulled at the ribbon, freeing his arms, all Erasmus could do was reach them around Torveld's back and hold on.

Torveld's voice descended into wordless grunts, and he began to shift his hand downwards towards Erasmus's hips, as if to take him in hand and finish their pleasure, when Erasmus arched his back and spilled between them, coming untouched.  Torveld moved as if he would withdraw.

"No - stay," Erasmus gasped, clutching at Torveld's back, "I want to feel - you finish inside me."

It was not a slave's place, to speak desires uninvited, but Torveld began thrusting into him again, a bit faster this time, and sharper.  And there was the pain that he had expected, but it was not the familiar searing of being torn apart; just overstimulated as the places that once provided pleasure began to tingle unpleasantly, too spent to arouse again but trying to do so anyway, his body sensitive and overwhelmed, overwhelmed, filling the spaces in his mind where his dark thoughts hid and he had asked for it this time and it was good, so good.

Erasmus could feel the wet as Torveld spurted inside him, his own name on his master's lips.  Torveld collapsed on top of him, panting.

"How - how do you feel?" asked Torveld.  They were still joined together, though he was softening and would slip out soon.

"Like I've had a First Night," said Erasmus, truthfully.  Then, "Thank you."

It was not a prescribed response, not one of the things that slaves were meant to say when they were happy and sated, but it felt right, in the moment.  Torveld kissed him, tender and long.

When he finally rolled off, Erasmus got up unsteadily, fetched cloths and a bowl of water to clean the mess, delighting in every tremble his body gave as he moved across the room.  He thought that he would have this again, often, whenever his master wanted it - and he knew that he had never been so happy.


	2. To Get What You Want Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patras starts to feel like home; but events conspire to complicate Erasmus's life and relationships in ways he could not have imagined. (Pt. 1)

Erasmus was a good slave:  sweet-tempered and patient, obediant and kind.  He anticipated the whims of his masters and saw to their comfort without needing to be asked, he performed his tasks unobtrusively.  He practiced his skills - the forms of submission, his singing, the kithara - daily when he was not serving, and when called to perform, the height of his art added to his master's status and pride.  He had been intended for great things in Akielos, intended for the high court and the Crown Prince, and here in Patras, with his daily practice and the beloved master he strove to impress, he was continually getting better.

* * *

"Lord Corwaln is very pleased with Narsis's service," said Torveld conversationally, as Erasmus combed through his hair before bed - unnecessary, with Patran styles being so short, but Torveld liked the sensation, especially when Erasmus put down the brush and turned the movements into a scalp massage, and the stress of the day eased away from the lines and creases of his forehead.

"Narsis will be glad to have inspired such praise."

"Corwaln wishes to buy him off me," Torveld continued, "Offered me a good price, but I think I could negotiate a better one, if I cared to try."

Twenty-four slaves had been brought with Torveld from Vere, and he still had most of them, although Erasmus was the only one who felt truly secure about being kept.  Nephele had been gifted to King Torgeir almost immediately, and she prospered in his care, and a few of the others had been made made gifts to his grown nieces and nephews at various special occasions.  The rest of them hung about the court, taking their turn at entertaining, serving honored guests and ambassadors.  They were Torveld's riches and part of his status.  He had not sold one yet.

"It is a great compliment to any slave when a master wishes to keep them," said Erasmus.

"It would help to secure Corwaln's loyalty to make such a personal deal with him," said Torveld, "But I would not like to send Narsis anywhere he did not wish to go."

"All of your slaves live to serve."

"I will take some days to think about it before I make up my mind," said Torveld, and he turned around to look at Erasmus to make sure he understood.  

All slaves must be both willing and honored to serve in all conditions under all circumstances, but one slave could tell another, in private, what kind of service they preferred, as they never could were masters present.  A slave could never refuse a request, or even pass on another's refusal, but they could choose between spontaneous and conditioned agreement, between, "Narsis was pleased to serve Lord Corwaln and liked him; he would be happy to belong to him," and, "Narsis is pleased to serve you and will go wherever you tell him."  In a climate where outright "no"s were forbidden, the difference between an explicit yes and a discreet non-yes was all important.  In certain contexts, a prescribed response functioned in the same way as a direct refusal.  A master could, of course, ignore it - that was what the code was for - but a true answer was available for any who took the time and care to puzzle it out.

In Vere he had suffered under a double language barrier:  himself ignorant of Veretian, and surrounded by those who knew nothing of his own strictures, so that the few words he managed to understand were worthless to him.  To a Veretian, there was little difference between, "yes, I want to do that," and "this one lives to serve," so that even those few who cared to ask shrugged and decided that if he did not protest, it must not matter - that he had no preferences about his own treatment, no more than a puppet or a doll, that he must not care if his body was used or his leg was burnt.

Erasmus felt all over again how lucky he was to have a master now who not only knew the game, but how to use it to his advantage.  Erasmus understood that Torveld would speak with him about this again before the final decision was made, and before that time, Erasmus would speak to Narsis himself and learn his desires, and find a way to pass those on.

"Whatever decision my master makes will be the right one," Erasmus said, because Erasmus would make sure that it was.

 

"I am pleased that Lord Corwaln is so taken with me," Narsis said, smiling, "He is very kind."

"Would you like to be his personal slave?"

"It would be an honor I never looked for to be any master's personal slave."

Narsis had never worn a pin:  in Akielos, he had been intended to be a table-slave or a bath-slave for the years of his youth, and then to serve in a training creche, where his gentleness would be a comfort to the younger boys.  In Patras, he served the same purpose.

"Do you think you would like the work?" Erasmus asked.

"I know you do," Narsis replied, "And I liked serving his lordship since he has been here.  I think that he would be a good master, but how can one tell for certain after so short a time?"

"Whereas you have had months of proof of Prince Torveld's kindness."

"Yes, we are lucky to belong to him.  But he has so many slaves, and none of us belong to him the way you do.  If he sold me, I would belong to Lord Corwaln the way you belong to our master now.  I think I would like that."

"Then again," he continued, "I would be more dependent on his whims than I am now, when my service is general and I know what is expected of me.  I have never reached very high.  I am content being a common slave.  The work is repetitive, but it is easy, and I enjoy it, and it is good to serve many different people, and see so much of the court."

Narsis frowned.

"But again, it may not please Prince Torveld to keep me forever, and should he decide later to sell me off or give me to one of his relations, I may not like that master as much as I like Lord Corwaln."

"It sounds like you're very confused," said Erasmus.

"I do not know at all what would be best," Narsis admitted, "But that is why we have masters, to make such important decisions for us.  Can you imagine how frightening it would be, to choose the course of our own lives?"

For a moment, Erasmus remembered a young boy standing by the wall of the training ground, looking out over the sea and telling his best friend that he wanted to see the world - Isthima and Cortoza and all the places of his songs - and he felt a sharp pang of loss.  Then he remembered what had happened to him when he had gone across the water, and he imagined how much worse it would have been if the torments he'd endured were not the result of cruel fate and a friend's betrayal, but the consequences of his own choices.  He shivered.

"We are both very fortunate to be what we are," said Erasmus, and Narsis nodded.

 

It was Narsis's right to express no preference, to deny himself even the illusion of choice and to assure himself that whatever his master decided for him would be more right and beneficial than anything he could think of for himself.  Erasmus approved of the decision - it was entirely befitting of a slave's position, and expressed a faith and trust in his master that was only just considering what he had already done for them.  But ... but Torveld was not only a good master, he was the best of all possible masters.  And therefore, he would want not just to make a good decision for Narsis, but the best possible decision.  And to do that, would he not need to understand the situation perfectly, perhaps to know things about Narsis and about Lord Corwaln that masters were not privy to, that only a slave might know?

Erasmus would never presume to nudge his master's thinking in one way or the other (indeed, after talking with Narsis, he did not know himself what would be best, and was only grateful that it was not his place to choose.)  But he would, he resolved, find out everything he could that might make his master's choice easier, even if that meant talking the matter over like men and equals, rather than relying on the subtle communications of the code.  Tomorrow, he would go to Narsis again, and they would discuss his service in detail:  what he liked doing best, what he did not prefer quite as much, how much care Lord Corwaln had taken for his pleasure when serving.  Now, Erasmus would go to the servants' quarters, and find out from Lord Corwaln's men what kind of master he was long-term.

* * *

Above all things, Erasmus liked to be useful - and nothing gave him greater satisfaction than to lie abed in the bright hours of the morning secure in the consciousness of having been well and thoroughly used.  Erasmus smiled as the sun played over his face, remembering the night before, and lay in quiet contentment until he felt Torveld stirring beside him.

"Are you ready to start the day, master?" he asked.  Torveld made a noise deep in his throat and nodded.

Erasmus slipped from the bed and reached for the clothes he had discarded on the floor the night before.

"Don't get dressed," Torveld said, and Erasmus glanced back to see his master recumbent among the pillows, watching him.  Erasmus flushed and continued his morning duties with a little extra care for his form, conscious of his master's eyes upon him.  He kept his head demurely bowed and let his bare hips sway gently as he walked to the wardrobe and laid out a tunic and sandals; poured warm water from the ewer the other slaves had brought in discreetly in the early hours of the morning into a shallow basin and dripped in perfumed oil; made a platter from the fresh fruits and soft bread they had also brought in and carried it back over to the bed.

Torveld often phrased his commands as requests, but it was good to be given direct orders again.  It was not long since they had returned from the borderlands of Vere, where Erasmus had used his position as favorite to encourage his master to come to the aid of the Veretian prince who had been so kind to him against the Regent who had burned his leg.  He did not feel guilty about having done so; it was the prerogative of the most favored to use his influence, and he owed the Prince and the strong slave he had made his general infinitely more for what they had done for him in finding him such a kind master.  He could not regret it.  But it was time - indeed past time - for Erasmus to remember his proper place in the world.

If there was anything unsatisfying in being ordered about, it was that it still felt to him like a game.  A beloved game - his favorite game, one that made him aware of his sensuality like nothing else and sent shivers running through him as if he could feel his master's gaze like palpable heat, his body already half-aroused when he bent to retrieve the sandals, aware of Torveld watching him bending over - but still more like playacting than the natural order of things.  After all this time in service, he should inhabit this role as a fish inhabits the water, surrounding him too fully for him to be aware of it - not trying it on like a thrilling departure from his daily routine.

Erasmus climbed back onto the bed, kneeling among the covers with the tray of food on his lap and looking up through his eyelashes as he tore the white bread into chunks, smearing each one with honey before bringing it up to his master's lips.  Torveld kept his eyes hot on Erasmus's face, opening his mouth passively to receive the morsels, and Erasmus blushed, enjoying the gaze, and the soft brush of warm lips against his fingers, and the waiting as tension built between them.

"I brought something back with me, from our trip to the Veretian border," said Torveld when his breakfast was done.  He reached around Erasmus, making him blush with the heat of his proximity, and plucked a leather pouch from the side table.  He drew out a small glass vial filled with pink liquid.  Erasmus knew what that was.

The infamous pleasure drug was used extensively in the training of the slaves in Akielos, but it was only rarely seen after training was complete.  A proper slave should be able to meet their master's attentions with enthusiasm and carnal excitement without chemical inducement, and the effect the drug produced was so extreme that it was more effective for, well, groups.

Which meant, either, that Torveld was planning to take it himself and see how many partners it took for it to wear off - or that he meant for Erasmus to be - shared.

Outwardly, Erasmus did not react; but inwardly he was frozen.  The thought of anyone else enjoying his master's body made him burn with more anger and bitterness than he had thought himself capable of, so much so that he was frightened of the unsuspected darkness in his heart; even worse though, was the thought of anyone touching him besides Torveld.  He knew that Torveld would not let him be harmed, but that did not stop the panic surging behind the memories of what had happened the last time someone else had laid hands on him.

And yet neither of these options were inappropriate or even unusual requests.  They were well within the expected parameters of the treatment even a much-favored and pampered slave could expect.  If Erasmus balked, it could only be because he was - as he had suspected - becoming spoiled by Torveld's treatment.  Had he not been resolving just moments ago to remember what he was meant to be?  This was an opportunity to correct his course.  There could be little honor in obeying orders to do things he wanted to do anyway.  This was a chance to abase himself fully, to give his body and his desires up to his master in a more meaningful way than he ever had.

Erasmus mastered his internal reactions and smiled placidly.

"I find I am still young enough to be curious about the effect this is said to produce," Torveld continued, grinning, as he spun the vial in his fingers, "I have a small keep a half-day's journey from here, where I sometimes make short hunting trips with few retainers.  It's very private.  I thought you might accompany me there.  I thought you might accompany me there - then we could each take some of this, and see what happens."

Erasmus closed his eyes, overwhelmed at the kindness of his master.   _You should be disappointed_ , said a voice in the back of his head, but that did not stop the relief and gratitude that surged through him, pricking the corners of his eyes with unshed tears.

"This one is _deeply_ honored to serve you, in any way he can."

"Erasmus, this is no small think I'm asking you to do.  I need to know that you are truly willing."

Erasmus looked up.  "This one - _I_ \- was taken to Vere before I reached the part of my training where I would have been given this.  I confess that I am also curious about what it would be like."  He resettled his limbs on the bed, leaning closer.  "It would please me greatly to discover it with you."

Torveld pulled him into a deep kiss, then the remains of the breakfast tray clattered to the floor as they tumbled back into bed.

* * *

There was a fire in Erasmus's limbs; a desperate, burning need to be touched that was never sated even as he got what he wanted again and again and again.  He had lost count of how many times they had brought each other to climax, but each release brought no relief from the lust that twisted through him, and his body remained aroused.  He wondered - half eagerly, half in despair - how much longer this could go on before the drug wore off and returned him to his proper self.  The thought of remaining like this, ever-pleasured and ever-wanting, ever-longing and ever-close, was united torment and paradise.  He was grateful that Torveld - his clever master, his _brilliant_ master, who needed to keep pounding into him there, right there, more, gods, more, _oh yes_ \- had thought to bring them into seclusion for this little experiment, as they grunted and screamed like animals, unembarrassed and primal.

His head was swimming and his training forgotten - everything was forgotten but the sensations travelling through him right now.  As he reached the peak of his ecstasy for the - fourth? fifth? - time that day, he twisted his fingers into the sheets and heard his own voice, wrecked with pleasure, crying, _"Torveld!"_

 

Erasmus needed to get up.  He needed to fetch water and cloths to clean them up (they were stickier and more disgusting than he could have imagined), and change the bedclothes so they could fall into much-needed sleep.  He also needed to prostrate himself and beg forgiveness.  He had no business calling his master by name.  It had not been asked for - he had not been given permission.  But he was exhausted, worn out in every muscle.  And Torveld was still lying on top of him, panting heavily and being heavy and he just wanted to - stay.  Just for a moment.  Soon he would get up and start regrets and deal with things, but if he could have just one moment longer...

"You must never call me anything but master in front of anyone else."

Erasmus flushed.  "Yes, master, I know, I - "

"But when we are alone, I think I would like it if you continued calling me Torveld."

* * *

Erasmus was a bad slave:  possessive and familiar.  He took liberties and gave voice to his own desires.  In Akielos, he had been taught perfect selflessness, but he was finding himself to be altogether too full of the self.  In Patras, indulged by a master who loved him and motivated too much by his own love in return, he was only getting worse.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked my butt, so I'm breaking it up into two parts just to get part of it up. Really should be continuous with the next one (which will finally have Kallias!)


	3. To Get What You Want Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patras starts to feel like home; but events conspire to complicate Erasmus's life and relationships in ways he could not have imagined. (Pt. 2)

Erasmus was called only once into the King's chambers during his service in Patras.  He arrived clutching his kithara like a shield, knowing he could refuse nothing that the king asked but that it would still be his fault if he granted a favor his master would not like.  But he was relieved to find, on arrival, that the royal brothers were both there in council, and safety washed over him when he saw Prince Torveld there.

"You belonged to Prince Damianos, didn't you," the King began, "before you were sent to Vere."

"This slave had that honor, yes."

"You know what he looked like, then?"

Erasmus bowed his head to the floor.  "It is agony to be unable to give satisfaction, but this one was still in training when taken out of Akielos.  I never saw my first master."

"Pity, then.  But you did see the Prince of Vere's slave.  What manner of man is he?"

"Kind, and generous enough to think of one so lowly.  He interceded with his master and sent me to my master Torveld, for which this one will be forever grateful."

"Yes, but can you give a description."

"He is a very tall man; well-muscled and brown.  His hair is dark."

The King looked at his brother.  "I told you this would be useless."

"Erasmus," Torveld said, "There is civil war in Akielos.  Prince Laurent's slave has claimed to be Damianos himself, banished as a slave through the treachery of his brother.  Laurent backs him, as do some of the kyroi.  They are marching on Ios.  Patras will stay neutral, for now, but we would like to know, if we can, whether the claim is true or false."

Erasmus wanted wanted to gasp.  More than that, he wanted to exclaim about this to Torveld, talk it over uncensored between them - cannot believe it; but surely they would not lie; did you notice anything peculiar; did you; doesn't it make sense now the way he moved through the ranks of the army so quickly, the way he never acted like a slave, the way he showed such concern for those who should have belonged to him, a Prince and a master like you - but free speech was not allowed, shock and disbelief were not pretty, and Erasmus and Torveld were not alone.  He liked the King, but the gulf between who Erasmus was in front of others and who he was with his master behind closed doors was ever widening.  He looked up once, astonishment written all over his face, then respectfully lowered his eyes and smoothed his features back into appealing calm.

"This one spoke to - to the man who makes such a claim - firstly of his concern for the other slaves," said Erasmus, "He asked how we were being treated, if our masters were kind to us.  This slave tried not to speak ill of my masters, but he asked for details, like he knew he could be evaded but not lied to.  He became very angry when he saw the damage that had been done to this one, and promised to help us.  Within two days, we were given to Master Torveld."

"Damage?" asked the King.  Erasmus gave Torveld a frightened glance.

"Erasmus was ill-treated by some of the men in the Regent's service.  He bears a scar from it, but it's covered by his clothing."

"Oh he was, was he?  So that's why you were so determined to make war on the Regent, against my wishes."  He turned back to Erasmus.  "Did the Prince's slave ask you anything about Damianos's past, or about Ios?  Any information you might have access to as Damianos's intended slave?"

"No, your highness.  He asked only about what had been done to this one and the others after we left Akielos."

"And what name did he give you when he first spoke?"

"He did not honor this one with a name.  He said only that he had been a soldier, and that Kastor had made him a slave to punish him."

"Did you believe that story at the time?"

Erasmus hesitated.  This was not the sort of talk that a slave was meant to give, and he wished again that he and Torveld were alone.  "This one could see that he had not been trained to be a slave."

"How?"

"He - he did not know what he was doing.  He could not even kneel in the correct position."

"There's a right and wrong position?  Don't you just - kneel?"

Erasmus could not help looking horrified.  He averted his face lest they see his expression.

"I did think it strange," Torveld said quickly, "That Akielos had trained a slave so large and strong.  Their fashion, like ours, is for delicacy.  But I thought perhaps he had been brought up specially to be an experimental gift for a foreign court.  If, however, he was not a slave at all..."

"He had a scar," Erasmus said.  They turned to look at him, and he flushed.  "A visible one, on his shoulder.  It looked too old to have been received in Vere like the rest of ours, but they do not give the masters imperfect slaves; if that had happened to him during training he would have been -" his hand hovered unconsciously over the burns on his thigh.  He swallowed and corrected position. "It is not allowed."

"He could still be a common soldier, pretending," the King mused.

"He was given command in Prince Laurent's army fairly quickly for a 'common' soldier, and he wielded it well.  And I cannot believe the man I met in Vere would be so devious as to pretend to a throne not rightfully his, especially when he already exercises such influence over the rightful heir of Vere."

"And yet not so long ago, you could not believe that Kastor's grief was anything but genuine."

Torveld sighed.  "It is a tangled web." He turned towards Erasmus.  "Can you tell us anything else that might help?"

"He spoke to me about what my new master would be like.  He said that Prince Torveld was brave and honorable, and the right hand of his brother the King.  He mentioned the Prince's military campaigns against Vask, and that Master Torveld was responsible for brokering the peace.  And if this one might be allowed to venture an opinion ..."

He was waved on.

"Then, this one believes that he had owned slaves before.  He instinctively commanded this slave, like a master would."  He hesitated, then, and Torveld said gently, "There is something else?"

"Something happened in the slave quarters on the day Damianos was said to have died," Erasmus said slowly.  It was painful for him to remember. "What was it?"

"According to Kastor's story, Damianos's personal slaves were so distraught with grief for their master that they took their own lives.  All of them."

"That is not what happened," Erasmus said, breathing around the lump in his throat, "This one did not see it, but we could hear it, before they put us on the ship.  There was screaming.  Not screams and wails, as if bodies were found, just - screams."

Erasmus bowed so low his forehead touched the floor.  His eyes were scrunched tight, and his breathing ragged.   _I've lost my form,_ he thought.

"Thank you, Erasmus," said the King, so gently he resembled his brother back during those first days when Erasmus's wounds were so raw, "You may go."

 

Erasmus was quiet for the rest of the day, and Torveld allowed his mood as he served at dinner with his accustomed poise but without the smiles and shy glances.  They were chaste in the baths where Erasmus washed him carefully, which was far from unusual - Torveld was no callow youth whose body required him to respond to every touch every day - but he did not comment when Erasmus forewent his usual easy chatter either, and smoothed his hand gently over Erasmus's hair in approval just like always as he stepped out of the water.  

Torveld liked having Erasmus sleep in the bed with him, even on nights when they were not doing anything else there.  It was there in the dark, lying side by side, that Torveld spoke.

"If Damianos should reclaim his throne, there may be some question of who the slaves taken away by his brother really belong to."

Erasmus's first thought, ingrained, was that this was a reproach for his mood of the day, a reminder that he might be sent away if his service remained unenthusiastic, but Erasmus dismissed it at once - Torveld was too kind a master for that.  And he had not said it in a warning tone, but the neutral voice that was as close as he ever got to being tentative - an asking-without-asking.  At first Erasmus did not understand what the question was, but then he remembered: his own eyes, soft and reverent as he'd knelt before the slave-turned-general at Ravenel; the gratitude and approval in his own voice when he'd spoken of him this afternoon; and one memory that Torveld did not have, the two of them talking one slave to another, Damianos young and strong and beautiful, black curls tumbling above his eyes as he leaned towards Erasmus with a teasing smile, asking about his master,  _more handsome than Prince Damianos?_

"Torveld, _no_ ," Erasmus said with feeling, rolling over so that they were face to face,  _"Never_ that.  I know who I belong to."  He placed his hand against his master's cheek.  "I would not trade my lot with any man in this world."

Torveld placed a kiss against the inside of his wrist; pulled him closer for another hot on his mouth.  "What has troubled you today?"

Erasmus was silent for a long moment.  "There was a - a friend.  Another slave.  He belonged to Kastor.  We grew up together, and he was - he was ahead of me, in all things.  He always seemed to know what was going on.  We always said we would serve together, I serving the Crown Prince, and he his brother, but I had to catch up to him first and then ... One night, after he had been given to Kastor, he came back down to the training grounds.  I was so happy to see him again, but - then he kissed me, just like I'd always - and we were caught.  He'd  _arranged_ for us to be caught.  He denounced me, told them that I flung myself upon him, tried to ruin him, but he was the one who - then they took my pin and dragged me out of the slave quarters and sent me to Vere.  All this time I've thought I must have angered him, somehow, made him hate me - I never understood what the screams were, but if they were the slaves who belonged to Damianos, if they were being k-killed-"

"He saved your life."

"He always knew what was going on."

Erasmus did not know that he was crying until he felt Torveld's thumb gently brushing against his cheeks.

"I am glad," he said, "That he saved you, that you lived to find your way to me."

He wrapped his arms around Erasmus and pulled him tight against his chest, letting him cry on his shoulder, and Erasmus allowed himself this moment to be confused and overwhelmed and not care about letting his tears fall on his master's body or getting the bedclothes wet.

"So many things have happened to you," Torveld sighed, rubbing circles on his back even after Erasmus had calmed, "And you deserved none of them."

"I would not mind thinking that that I deserve where I am right now."

Torveld kissed him; an innocent, comforting kiss, he intended, but Erasmus surged against him and opened his mouth like a wanton.  Torveld, he had come to believe, was his recompense, the atonement of the universe for all the pain it had inflicted on him; his life, his continued existence, he now understood, was Kallias's gift to him.  Right now, he wanted to enjoy them both.

* * *

Prince Torveld had given his slaves the run of the palace gardens, and there was one particular courtyard where Erasmus liked to go to practice his kithara.  There was one tree in the middle for shade at each time of day while the rest was open to the sun, so he could move between them depending on the weather and his mood, and it was small and secluded enough that it was seldom used by others and he very often had privacy.  Sometimes he would catch movements from the windows overlooking it, as if people inside were stopping to listen, and he would switch from his repeated drilling of chord progression to full rehearsals of a song so that it would sound nice for them.

Often, he practiced the new Patran songs that he was learning, but sometimes he worked on his secret project of translating some of the songs of his homeland into Patran so that he could sing them at the court.  He had too much respect for the traditional epics as they were to try anything new with them, but there were others that could be changed, and part of him liked the idea of taking something familiar from his childhood and remaking it here, in the place where he was loved and appreciated.  He'd been struggling for some weeks on his first attempt, a short piece about waves meeting the shore, first crashing eagerly into the sand, then dragging back to the ocean with lingering caress, only to surge back to do it again in undulating rhythm.  The literal translation was easy and he had finished it within the first hour.  But like most Akielon songs (other than those that were martial) it had a deeply ingrained yet understated sensuality to it that was meant to constantly recall the act of love without actually being euphemistic.  It was phenomenally difficult to choose words with just the right connotations: too overtly sexual, and the song became crass as a Veretian joke; too subtle, and it was - well, a rather boring poem about waves.

Erasmus was just deciding that there was no way to fit words of the correct sentiment into the meter without altering the melody to better fit the rhythms of Patran speech when Torveld walked into the courtyard, and Erasmus switched to a light instrumental piece that would make a fitting backdrop to a walk on a pleasing day.  Torveld sat on a bench close by and listened.  When he was done, Erasmus let the silence hang, waiting to see if his lone audience had any requests, when Torveld said,

"King Damianos intends to send an abolitionist along with the diplomatic delegation."

Erasmus carefully lowered his kithara to a safe place on the ground.

"He wants you to free the slaves of Patras," he said.

(The news had come quickly after Damianos reclaimed his throne that he had freed the slaves of Akielos.  Erasmus had recoiled in horror, asking what the slaves had done to displease him so.  _Nothing,_ Torveld had explained,  _It is only that having been a slave himself, he now objects to any man sharing that fate._ So much time later, and it seemed that the King still did not understand.)

"How much pressure will he put on your brother?"

Torveld snorted.  "Not much.  There are alliances in place with parts of the Vaskian Empire, but they go through King Laurent, and however great Damianos's faith in him, the kyroi will be easier if they keep allies whose primary friendship is through Damianos.  He can't afford to push enough to risk alienating Patras.  This is mostly a chance for the nations to engage in some mutual back-patting, with a bit of trade negotiation on the side.  But he will be sending someone with them to ... plead his case.  On moral grounds."

"I do not relish kneeling in a room while some free man is telling you that he knows more about how my life should be than I do, or more of taking care of me than you do."

"Nor I.  That is why we want to show him, without words, that the slaves in Patras are happy and well cared for, and can desire no change in their lives."

Erasmus nodded.  "No one who sees me will be able to doubt the constant joy that is my life."

 

By the night of the envoys' arrival, Erasmus knew that he could keep his promise.  The morning he had spent in the baths, letting the attendants wash every part of him and anoint his body with oil.  In the early part of the afternoon, he had rested; on rising, he had asked that his face be painted with the gold shimmer he usually forewent (Torveld liked him to look natural) and lined his eyes with kohl and his lips with pink stain lightly - lightly - just enough that he looked less like a person and more like a dream, a vision of unreachable perfection.  Then he smiled in the mirror, just to check, and sure enough he could still look like Erasmus when he wanted to, sweet and happy.

In the great hall, the doors swung open to admit their visitors, and Erasmus launched into an Akielon song of praise, his eyes to the heavens and joy in his face as his pleasant voice echoed around the room.  It was not until his song was finished that he looked directly at the group that had come in and stilled to watch him.  There were perhaps as many as ten people in the group from Akielos, and an equal number of attendants in plainer clothing hovering in the space behind them.  The new ambassador was distinguishable only by his age and the way the rest of the group subtly inclined towards him as leader, but beyond that Erasmus could not tell the difference between the diplomats, the representatives of seaman for the fishing rights and the merchants for the trade agreements and all the other envoys of the government were indistinguishable, save one.  There was no mistaking the man who had come to argue for the rights of the slaves, who was standing in about the middle of the group, neither placed in front nor pushed to the rear, and looking at Erasmus with an unreadable little smile.

It was Kallias.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well ... that was an unexpected hiatus. Sorry.
> 
> I'd love to promise a posting schedule, but I can't guarantee I won't fall into a slump again. The good news is that there should only be two more chapters plus an already-written epilogue, assuming I don't end up splitting one of the remaining chapters into two again.
> 
> Hope you like it!


	4. What You're Willing to Give Up (Pt. 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kallias negotiates for the release of the Patran slaves; Erasmus flounders as the lines he's always trusted become blurred.

Kallias looked good.  Erasmus had been worried about his friend - a little, when he heard about the violence in the capital; and a good deal more, when he had heard about the freeing of the slaves and imagined him cast unprotected out to the world.  But he looked Kallias over now with all the subtlety of one who had trained his whole life to go unnoticed, and could not see any visible marks of violence on his body, nor any stiffness in his movements that would reveal old injuries.  His expression was open and his eyes bright and unshadowed as he looked boldly around the room.   His head was unbowed.  Erasmus had been taught that to be a slave was one of the the highest honors a person could hope for, second only to being a master.  To be a free man who owned no slaves, separate and apart from the mutual bonds of submission and dominance, service and protection - was, in comparison, a lowly thing.  A  _pitiable_ thing.  He would have expected a free Kallias to look degraded when compared to his former self.  But there was nothing pitiable about Kallias now, with all the youthful beauty that had made him the prized possession of the court paired with a straight back and firm shoulders.  When he stepped forward to make his introductory bow to King Torgeir, he moved with both steady confidence and the lithesome grace that would likely never leave him after all his years of training.

He looked  _very_ good.

Erasmus was not the only one who noticed.  He wished he still had that rinse from Akielos that used to lighten his hair.

 

"There is nothing better after a long road than the hospitality of so fine a court," the new ambassador said, raising a glass of strong Patran wine in the direction of the King, "We thank your majesty for the welcome."

Around him, the rest of the Akielon delegation raised their glasses likewise, including Kallias, who was seated at the ambassador's right hand, only three seats removed from where Erasmus knelt at Prince Torveld's feet.  It had never been more important that Erasmus be natural in his service, but Kallias's presence - worse, that it was Kallias that he was supposed to impress - made him over-conscious of his lines in a way that always led him to stiffness and mistakes.  Kallias had watched him train, knew every flaw and difficulty he had struggled to overcome, had witnessed his hours of practice and could never be taken in by any illusion of effortless grace,  _Kallias could hold any one of these forms better than he could himself._ Erasmus did not understand it.  Why would the jewel of Kastor's house, the performer who supplanted Ianessa, the treasure among treasures whom every slave envied - why would he try to take that away from everyone else?  Why would Kallias do that?  Erasmus rubbed against his master's knee as he brought food up to his lips and thought,  _Kallias worked with me personally on this form to look appealing from above_ and had to bite back a hysterical laugh.

"We may lack as grand a hall as the court in Akielos," King Torgeir was saying, "But we still possess a kind of hospitality that I hear you have been missing of late."

The ambassador glanced down at Astacos, who had been assigned to serve him.

"The great change in our court was no easy task, but our Kings brought the kyroi to bear.  Damianos-Exalted still wears one of the cuffs from his experience, and he has a way of leaning forward on that arm and raising his eyebrows as if daring people to keep arguing with him that makes you remember that he remains undefeated both as a commander and a warrior in his own right.  Then there is twisty King Laurent, dropping sly comments about the Veretian view of men who need to dominate slaves to feel strong and suggesting that he would take loyalty to the new regime as evidence in determining who were the traitors who had supported Kastor ... For centuries this institution was in place and they abolished it in a few months.  I shall never in my life witness a piece of statecraft like that again."  The ambassador took a sip of wine.  "It's good, that we are a nation of free people now.  That is something to be proud of.  But it is also good to become reacquainted with the pleasures of one's youth."  He smiled at Astacos in warm approval.

"Pleasures that you would deny us, if you have your way."

"That's young Kallias's job."  The ambassador gestured towards him.  "Not quite as intimidating as our Kings, is he!  We'll have to see if his pretty face and charming words can work the same magic."

"And do you think your charms can surpass those of all the slaves you would have us free?"  The King spoke past the ambassador to Kallias.

"No, your majesty, I don't think that," said Kallias, smiling.  Leitus was kneeling at his feet, and Kallias had not objected, but he did hold out his hand for each morsel instead of allowing the slave to bring it directly to his lips.  "But in Akielos, we have long known of the integrity of Patras.  I know your majesty will continue to do what you believe to be right; I must hope that my arguments will be sound enough to change your mind."

"My mind is fairly well settled."

"Yet an honest mind yields to new information, if it is good enough."

Torveld cut in.  "And you think you have such good information on slavery?  Tell me, before the abolition, did you keep slaves yourself?"  

"I confess I did not have that honor."

"Then how can you claim to know more than we do about how the slaves deserve to be treated?"

"There is one better guide," said Kallias, and Erasmus knew what was coming but could see no way to stop it.  "Before the abolition, I was a slave myself."

A jolt of laughter burst out from those in hearing, but quickly sputtered as Kallias's polite expression did not change.

"You are serious?" King Torgeir said, "Forgive me, but you do not have the attitude of a slave about you."

"Not anymore, no," Kallias agreed, "But you do not have to take me at my word.  Erasmus knows me."

Torveld's hand went to Erasmus's shoulder.  All eyes were suddenly upon him, and he willed himself not to react.

"Is this true Erasmus?" asked King Torgeir.

Erasmus bowed as low as he could in the space by his master's feet.  "This slave had that honor."

"And he was truly ...?"  Torveld gestured inarticulately, gaping

"When this one last saw him, the distinguished guest of the King was in the service of Prince Kastor."

"But we knew each other before that," Kallias explained to the company, "We were brought up together in the same training creche."  

He leaned forward, so that he could look down the table at Erasmus.  "It is good to see you well, old friend."

Yes, it was good.  He remembered how close they had been as boys, heads always bent together with their arms thrown about each other's necks.  He remembered that last terrible night in the garden, that Kallias had last seen him pleading and hurt, his face twisted with the horror of being betrayed.  He remembered that Kallias had no way to know what Erasmus had learned since, that he had come to understand what had really been going on.

He darted his eyes up swiftly to meet Kallias's face and offered a quick smile.

"And you," he said, before ducking back down and resuming his submissive posture.

Around them, a murmur of disquiet was moving across the table.  He realized suddenly that by making impeccable-Erasmus publicly break form to look and speak directly at him, Kallias had cemented his former status more viscerally than any testimony could have accomplished.  He wondered if Kallias had planned that.

Torveld's fingers curled into his hair, possessively.

 

At the close of the welcoming feast, Erasmus took up a platter and began helping to clear the room instead of following Torveld to wherever he would go as the party broke up into smaller gatherings.  His presence had not been specifically requested, and he often repaired to the prince's chambers early to prepare, or just to enjoy some private time before the performance of his nightly duties, so he would not be looked for.  He wanted to be busy, doing something comfortingly familiar that required little thought; he wanted to be among the other slaves, whose status was also being discussed and examined; he wanted, for the moment, to avoid Kallias, who might be included in any group Torveld joined.  He handed the silver platter off to the kitchen staff.

Turning back, he saw that one of the handlers had pulled Leitus aside in the small alcove by the kitchen doorway and was speaking to him sternly.  "You were acknowledged."

Leitus fell to his knees in supplication.  "This one is - sorry - I - I don't know what I did wrong."

Leitus had served ambassadors before, but this occasion, displaying his service for the one who came to argue against his position, was perhaps the most important task of his life, and all of the slaves knew it.  He had been deeply shamed and embarrassed when, at the close of the feast, Kallias had risen and bowed to him, saying, "Thank you for your service."  Once again, as when it had happened, Erasmus felt a great rush of anger towards Kallias, who knew better than any other free man why that was wrong and yet had done it anyway.

He walked over to where they were and knelt beside Leitus in solidarity.

"This slave admits to fault also," Erasmus said, "I was also acknowledged at table."

There was a long silence.

"But - you could not have helped that."

Erasmus looked up at the handler, who darted his glance back and forth between the two slaves, hesitating.   _He's afraid,_ Erasmus thought,  _He does not mind reprimanding Leitus for Kallias's actions, but he does not want it to get back to the Prince that he punished me, or that he showed me undue favoritism._ And Erasmus's low-burning anger at Kallias blossomed into a rage, expanding to cover the trembling hypocrite before him and the rules that Leitus could not help breaking and every injustice in the world that led to the two of them kneeling here, the only difference between them that Erasmus had someone who would care how he was treated.

"This one cannot see how to help being acknowledged by the abolitionist," said Erasmus, "He cannot argue that slaves ought to be freed without treating us like free people, and exposing us to shame.  These slaves seek guidance in how to respond to him."

Erasmus sank back to match Leitus's posture.  The handler thought.

"We will not dignify such behavior with a particular response," the handler decided, "From now on, you will respond as if you were given appropriate praise.  'This slave is unworthy of notice.'"

"This slave is grateful for instruction," said Erasmus, increasing his bow, a startled Leitus parroting him a moment later.

When they were dismissed, Erasmus stayed by Leitus's side until they reached the slave quarters.

* * *

It took Erasmus some time to notice that in the days since the Akielon delegation had arrived his master gradually became reluctant to take him to bed.  They had been close for long enough by then that he knew ebbs and flows in their physical relationship to be normal over time, and for a while it did not strike him that there was more to their lack of bedplay than a natural period of calm between them.  He had other things on his mind.  Since the night of the welcoming banquet, he had been unable to talk to Kallias, or even catch a glimpse of him anywhere other than the great hall, so severely was he segregated from the Patran slaves.  It made sense that an abolitionist would not be permitted to simply walk into the slave quarters and make grand speeches, but his words, whatever they were, had apparently been deemed dangerous enough to justify forbidding the slaves from serving him in any setting more private than a grand banquet, or even being in the same room when he preached freedom to their masters.  There were so many things he wanted to discuss with Kallias - that night in the garden, what had happened to their other friends, what had happened to change each of them in the time they'd been apart, freedom and what it meant to Kallias and how he was living under it and what could have possibly brought him to try to impose it on those who had no use for it and were happier without it.  But with each day that passed, he began to fear that Kallias would be sent back to Akielos before they could say any of it.

Kallias's effect on the other slaves worried him as well.  He was the focus of fascinated gossip in the slave quarters, and it troubled Erasmus to hear the whispered questions traded back and forth about Kallias as a person, and what he could possibly be saying to the masters that made them forbid contact with him, and why, if his words troubled them so, they kept going back to hear him over and over again.  Erasmus was uncomfortable when they started asking him invasive personal questions about Kallias's early life and character; more so, when the whispers ceased when he entered the room.  Probably it was only that the talk had turned to unflattering rumors that they hesitated to share in front of one who had been his friend; but as the silences greeting him became more frequent, he began to suspect that what little of Kallias's arguments managed to trickle down to the other slaves was leading their thinking down avenues that loyal Erasmus would not approve.  He did not like it.

Kallias met nearly every day with some member of the royal family, and Torveld was a frequent attendant, so Erasmus had some better idea than the others what was being talked about from the questions Torveld asked him afterwards.  Was it true that slaves in training were kept in such seclusion that they never saw the outside world, or any person besides their trainers and fellow slaves?  That they learned to practice kithara at prescribed intervals in prescribed ways that kept them from growing protective calluses and meant that their fingers would always hurt when they touched the strings?  That they were severely limited in the ways they could show even innocent affection for each other so that they would respond to their eventual master's touch as one starving for contact?  That they practiced holding and transitioning their forms daily for hours until their limbs ached, until they could hold any pose with grace and beauty even on the verge of exhaustion?

"I did not know that the training of soldiers was so much less rigorous than ours, that our efforts should trouble you so," Erasmus said, in response to this last, "Tell me, how many fewer hours daily does the army spend running their drills?"

"That's different," said Torveld, but he didn't say why, and he smiled and was more comfortable around Erasmus for some days after.

But such victories were few, and usually Erasmus's truthful answers failed to smooth away the worry lines that were growing on his forehead.  Erasmus became troubled too, worried that Torveld was worried; upset that Torveld was upset; outraged, that the best of men and of masters who had picked up the broken pieces of Erasmus in Vere and put him back together so tenderly and well that he felt more whole than he ever had was being made to doubt himself.  He wished, often, that Torveld would simply stop going, but even on days when Torveld came back stern and silent instead of full of questions and Erasmus knew that he had parted from Kallias in anger, very little time would pass until Torveld would return to listen to him again - as did the king, as did the crown prince, as did multiple other members of the family, no matter how many rumors swirled about one or the other of them shouting and storming angrily from that room.  And here Erasmus saw the brilliance of the united Kings in sending a former slave to do their arguing for them - for no matter how little inclined the Patrans were to listen to him or how hard it must be to earn their respect, there was an irresistible fascination about a freed slave as an object and a morbid curiosity to hear about a world that was kept purposely invisible to them that kept them coming back.

Erasmus hoped that it was fascination and curiosity.  He remembered, though, the gardens of Nereus and at the palace, Kallias universally recognized as the loveliest and most skilled of all the male slaves; he remembered waiting in the training grounds for his chance to join Kallias at the court, treasuring up the rumors of his friend's success, how he had caught the eye of all the court, how he made all men envy Kastor his mastery; he remembered, too, his own confused reaction to seeing Kallias again, to his blue eyes and brown curls, the way he stood like a master but moved like a slave.  He hoped that it was curiosity that was sending Torveld back, for if it was not, how could Erasmus hope to compete now that Kallias was revealing all of the their illusions?

 

Erasmus itched beneath his skin - in the baths, where he caressed Torveld's body with warm suds and was rewarded with a smile and a pat on the head; at the table, where he pressed himself fetchingly against Torveld's legs, kneeling at his feet, and received one hand-stroke over his hair; in Torveld's rooms, where they talked more openly than ever but where Torveld did not motion for him to leave the cushion on which he knelt and come sit on his lap; in bed, where Torveld embraced and kissed him, and then said goodnight and rolled over.  Erasmus smiled and Erasmus looked contented and inside Erasmus was burning.  It was not the desperate, all-consuming burning of the time they'd gone to the keep and taken the pleasure drug, but a low-smolder of dissatisfaction that fled quickly enough on the rare occasions when Torveld did ask for his hands or his mouth and offer his own in return, but returned all too quickly afterwards as temperance rebuilt between them.  His master had not taken him since the night Kallias arrived.

He would have said that such - loneliness, he called it in his own mind, though he knew that was not the word for what he was feeling - had not visited him since Akielos and the days of his training, but even as he thought it, he realized that it was not true.  There had been times - rare, given the way Torveld indulged, but there - when he had known longing, and when that happened, he had used to subconsciously fall back on his training, gaze more shyly up through his eyelashes and emphasize his perfect submission, and Torveld would always grin wolfishly and ask of him some delightful service that would make the feeling go away.  He had not realized he had been doing it until now, when it stopped working.  Of course it had stopped working.  Kallias had given away all of the slaves' secrets, and how could it work now that Torveld knew the trick?

Erasmus tried to remind himself that it was not his desires that mattered - that he existed to serve Torveld's pleasure only, giving up his own wants and needs in return for the honor and protection of the service, and that this was the trade that made his life (his wonderful, enviable life) possible.  But it was more difficult now than it used to be to find comfort in the old mantras of selflessness.  Torveld, in his generosity and affection, had made Erasmus's happiness and pleasure a goal of their lovemaking for so long that Erasmus had become used to treating his desires as important.  It was a difficult thing to take back now.

 

In the dream, Erasmus was chasing Kallias down the corridor that led from the great hall.  He needed to catch up to Kallias, to explain to him that the abolition meetings needed to stop, that they were taking Torveld away from him and it was making Erasmus sad.  Kallias was not running, but he was very far ahead and Erasmus had to run to catch up to him.  Kallias disappeared through the archway with the stone carvings, the one that in the waking world let to the library, but in the dream it had only ever led to the gardens and Erasmus was prepared to feel the night-cool gravel under his bare feet.  In the light from the festival fires behind him, he could see Kallias come to a pause by the balustrade and finally managed to come up to him, but when he got there, he was not faced with the new, confusing Kallias who stood tall and uncollared.  This was the Kallias he remembered, submissive and head-bowed and still in his training silks.

"You are leaving me," Erasmus said, instead of the things he had planned to say.  Beyond the railing lay the beach and the ocean, but that was far beyond the pools of light and could not be seen in the darkness.  They could hear the waves, though, crashing up against the shoreline, and the sound was as if the sea surrounded them, encompassing and invisible.

Kallias nodded.  "Kastor has returned from Marlas early.  I am to have my First Night."

"Will it be hard for you, being a slave again?"

"I have always been a slave," young Kallias said, "I have always been a slave, and it has always been hard."

"I will catch up to you," Erasmus promised, "I will work so hard, and I will see you again in the court.  I will serve the Prince and you will serve his brother, and we will be together always."

And Erasmus would work so hard, so hard to earn his collar and cuffs and be given to Torveld again, to serve his Prince the way he was meant to.

"I wish that you could be my First," Kallias said, and Erasmus threw his arms around his neck, resting his cheek against Kallias's just as he had before, in the strongest way they were allowed to touch.  Kallias let his hand drift down to Erasmus's hip, and - not, this time, because the air between them became charged, but because they were in the dream-space where everything was easy and everything just happened - their bodies shifted together, drawing close, pressing up.  But when they had done this in real life, it had been the naive rubbing together of boys, clumsy and instinctual.  Now, Erasmus knew how to rut against someone with intent, how to seek friction for himself with the same motions that gave his partner what he craved, and he brought that knowledge with him into the dream.

"I'm sorry," Kallias cried between breathy moans, his voice sounding oddly like Torveld's because that was the voice Erasmus knew best wrecked with pleasure, "I'm sorry I sent you to Vere."

Erasmus woke, suddenly.  His breath was coming fast and he was hard between his legs.  He had to run, had to get out of the garden before anyone caught them, had to make certain no one had seen, that Kallias wouldn't tell anyone what they had done and what they had almost done, or he would never be given to a master, would never get to see Torveld and - but as the fog of the dream slowly slipped from his mind, Erasmus remembered that all of that had happened long ago, that it had happened in Akielos, not in Patras, that Kastor was dead and Kallias was freed and Erasmus's master was actually lying in the bed beside him.  But as he forcefully reminded himself of these things and the fear slipped away, it was replaced with a sick feeling that curled in his gut and stayed there.  This was not the first dream of this kind that had visited Erasmus in recent days, but all the others that he remembered had been with Torveld, and there was a fundamental wrongness to anything else that repulsed him.  He thought, fervently, desperately, of rolling about and "accidentally" waking Torveld up, sure that his master would not see him aroused and leave him wanting.  But there was a fear that instead of being eclipsed by a real experience with the one he was supposed to be with, the dream would linger in his mind, tainting what was really happening - a fear that disgusted him, but kept him still until his body calmed.

 

There were slave quarters in the palace at Bazal, but they were not as extensive as the ones in Akielos, and it was not forbidden for an unoccupied slave to seek out an empty room in the rest of the palace complex for greater privacy.  It was even allowed for them to practice their skills there, as Erasmus sometimes did in the courtyard, so long as the skill was a particularly beautiful one, something that would make a free man or woman coming into the room unexpectedly say, "Oh, how pretty!  Please finish your song/dance/poem/performance for me before you depart."  The audience chamber where Kallias commonly met with the royal family lay about midway between the Great Hall and the entrance to the gardens, small enough not to elevate Kallias's status beyond that of a minor diplomat, but central enough that kings and princes would not be lowering themselves by allowing him to wait on them there.  In the afternoons, Kallias would be summoned there to speak to anyone who had the time or curiosity to hear him.  In the mornings, it was vacant.

Three days after the dream, Erasmus practiced his new song in that room for two hours before the start of his midday duties and then walked out - consciously, deliberately leaving his kithara behind.  He served Torveld through a small luncheon, knelt at his feet while he wrote his letters and heard a report from his captain of the guard, was left behind when Torveld left for the abolition meeting, practiced his forms for fifteen minutes (he could time the length he spent holding each one by his breathing), and then went to retrieve his instrument.  If he was questioned in any way, Erasmus promised himself, he would stop.  He would not make excuses or wait to be ordered back, he would simply return to where he was supposed to be.  He knew that what he was doing was wrong.  But if whatever happened in that room could explain the distance that had grown between himself and Master Torveld, not fix it, perhaps, but at least let him know why ... he had to see what was going on there for himself.  He was not worried.  He just needed to know.

He had not felt fear walking through the halls of Patras since his first days here, when the lingering terror from Vere still came over him whenever his master wasn't there to chase it away. Still, no one stopped him, or reacted to his familiar presence in the halls.   _I will make up for this,_ Erasmus promised himself,  _I will work to be the best slave in the world, and I will never deceive any of these kind people again._ The guards outside the door were both Torveld's men, which meant that he and Kallias were inside alone.  They knew that the slaves were not allowed to be around Kallias, but when Erasmus bowed before the door in a silent request for entry, one of them opened it for him while the other waved him through.  Perhaps, knowing that Torveld was within, they considered it his responsibility to remind Erasmus of what he could and could not do.  Perhaps they assumed that Erasmus had been ordered to attend his master, and came with the Prince's full knowledge.

There was no reaction from the room's two occupants when Erasmus entered and made his subtle way across it: Torveld was too accustomed to Erasmus moving about in the background to give his presence any thought, and Kallias too intent upon the Prince to display any noticeable signs.  Kallias had been allowed to sit in the presence of royalty, but they were seated apart - reasonably apart, as if there were an invisible table between them, and Torveld sat on the higher chair, as was appropriate.  Torveld was leaning forward over his knees, looking into Kallias's face, and his gaze was intense, but not with - Erasmus refused to finish the thought.  Not with anything.  There was nothing there that should not be.  He had not been worried.

Indeed, his master seemed agitated more than anything else, tapping his fist against his knee to emphasize his words as Erasmus knelt, gracefully, to pick up his kithara.  "We would _know_ ," Torveld was saying heatedly, "If our slaves were unhappy in their service.  We would know.  _I_ would know."

"I am not surprised that Erasmus's master thinks so," Kallias replied calmly, "Among us, he was always known for the sincerity of his service.  But for someone else, it is not so hard to pretend."

The change was startling in its suddenness.  Gone was the straight posture and self-assured air Kallias had worn since he came to Bazal.  Instead he rose and fell to his knees in front of Torveld, collapsing gracefully into the space between them, head bowed and form correct as though he had kept on practicing it every day - no, as if he had never had to practice at all, as if he was born knowing it, as if it was part of him.  "This one is honored to serve you," he said, and his voice was as musical and placid as a fountain, just as they had practiced in the garden; until he lifted his head, slightly, just enough to look up beseechingly through his eyelashes, and spoke one more word, voice brimming with worship and gratitude, " _Master_."

 _This was why_ , Erasmus remembered.  This was why Kallias had been the pride of Nereus's garden, why he had so quickly become a favorite of the court, why it had never been right that he was the one who was only meant for Kastor despite Erasmus's honey-colored hair.  This was the cream of the cream of the cream, the best of the palace slaves, who were the best of the training gardens of Akielos, which were the best of the training gardens in the slave-holding world.  Erasmus was the star of the Patran slaves, but Kallias was showing lines that made him look like a pale imitation, that proved why he had always been ahead and Erasmus always far behind, jostling with the others to earn second-best.  _And now his master had seen it._

But before Torveld could react, before Erasmus could correct his unattractively frozen stare, it was over.  Kallias had risen with a short bow as a free man might make to request a forbearance from a prince before whom he had just put on something of an unsightly display and settled back into his seat.  He shrugged his shoulders with a smile that managed to appear both slightly apologetic and so sardonic that it almost replaced the eye roll he was too polite to make.

"If a slave did not want you to know what they were feeling, you would not know it."

Torveld looked away from Kallias for the first time since Erasmus had entered, searching around the room with a kind of desperation until he found Erasmus, eyes fixing on his face with a wild expression he had never seen before, but he thought it was - he thought it was revulsion.

After that, Torveld did not touch him at all.

* * *

"This slave no longer pleases you," Erasmus said. He had arranged the flickering lamps in the room to leave the cushion where he knelt in partial shadow, so Torveld would not have to see him clearly if he chose to look, and he had bowed his head so low that his curls hid his face.  Perhaps they would look chestnut, in this light.

"What? No," Torveld said in surprise, "Whatever gave you that idea?"

His master was kind.  Erasmus had always known that.  Yet now, he wished for a little less kindness, for a master who would criticize his faults and list the ways he proved dissatisfactory instead of trying to shield and comfort him.

"This slave no longer pleases you," Erasmus insisted, "This slave has not pleased you for some time."

"Ah.  That."  Torveld sat heavily upon the bed.  "No, sweetheart, you've done nothing wrong.  That has nothing to do with you."

Then all was as Erasmus feared.  There was no flaw he could mend, no error he could work on and correct, nothing he could do to fix this except outshine Kallias, which he had never been able to do.

"There is nothing, then, that you would -" his voice warbled, and he swallowed and corrected it.  He would not show pain to Torveld.  For the whole of his remaining life of service without intimacy, privately mourning the affection he had had and lost, he would not show that he was hurting.  Torveld would never see him cry.  "-ask, of this one?"

"Yes.  Yes there is one thing.  Have I ever -" Torveld hesitated.  "Have I ever put my hands on you when you didn't want them there?"

"Oh!" Erasmus said, head flying up into the light, "Oh, is that all?"

"This is no small thing, Erasmus!" Torveld was saying, but Erasmus was so full of the change taking place inside him that he barely heard it.  His mind cast back to Kallias's room, to that terrible expression in Torveld's face when he looked at Erasmus - not revulsion, but horror.  Horror, because Torveld was _worried_ about him.  The weight around his heart cast itself out so quickly it was like the sudden flight of rock doves, and Erasmus became aware that he was grinning, not one of the lovely smiles he had practiced but something helpless and giddy.

" _That_ is what has been troubling you?"

"More than you know."

"But you are the Master.  It is your right to put your hands on me whenever it pleases you.  You own me."

"And as your master, I demand the truth.  Have I ever touched you when you did not want to be touched?"

Erasmus rose and moved towards his master, making so bold as to roll his eyes affectionately.  "Torveld.  Of course you have.  But you have always stopped when you saw that I did not care for it, because you are a kind master."  He stopped facing Torveld, near enough to be reached out to.  "You should not let Kallias's words trouble you so."

"Good. That's good."  Torveld let out a breath.  "I want you to promise me that if I ever start something you don't want, you'll say no."

"A slave must do as the master commands."

"I will not have your safety in my care dependent on my own observation-"

"A slave must do," Erasmus interrupted, placing emphasis on each word, "As the master commands."

Torveld shook his head.  "Erasmus, as your master, I command you to tell me at once if I ever do something to you that you do not like or want."

Erasmus bowed his head.  "This slave hears and obeys."

Torveld reached out and pulled him closer to stand between the prince's knees.

"And that is all that was bothering you, before?" Erasmus asked, reaching out to lay his hands on Torveld's shoulders. "We can be as we were, now?  You won't need to leave me alone?"

"My poor Erasmus," he said, pulling him closer, "I was wrapped up in my moral quandaries, and all the while you were suffering my neglect."

Erasmus let his head fall until he was leaning against Torveld's forehead.

"I have been so worried about how my needs affected you, I forgot that you had your own needs hand wants."  He let his hand drift lower on Erasmus's back.  "Your own desires."

Erasmus turned his head and smiled secretly.

"I don't like the thought of leaving my bed slave dissatisfied.  I don't like it at all." He was rubbing low circles on Erasmus's back.  "From now on if you are ever feeling - _needful_ \- you can tell me about it."

Erasmus took half a step back in surprise.

"Wait, what?"

Torveld leaned back too, so that Erasmus was still in the circle of his arms but they could look each other directly in the face as they talked.  "You can tell me about it."

"You can't mean - it sounds like you are giving me permission to - to -"

"To ask for what you want."

"I can _ask?_ "

"Surely that's not so different from what we have been doing."

"It's very different!" Erasmus protested, trying to wrap his mind around it.  Being allowed to say no was - nice, he supposed, proof of Torveld's love and concern, and proof that they did not need freedom so much as good masters, no matter what Kallias said.  But actually refusing a service was the last and greatest violation of his training, and Erasmus could not imagine becoming upset enough to break it until long after Torveld would have noticed his distress and put an end to things.  But the license to speak his own desires ...

"Do you mean that I can ask for attention when I'm - when I want it, or that when we are already - being together, I can ask for a particular -" he stopped, blushing.

"Both," Torveld said easily, "Either."

"And if I ask for these things, you will -"

"I could say no if I wanted to, like you can now.  Or counter with a request of my own.  But probably I will grant it."  He reached up to brush a stray curl back behind Erasmus's ear.  "You know I love indulging you."

"I - _really?"_   Erasmus wondered if he should decline this, should smile and say "Yes master" while vowing to never use the liberty he had been handed.  No, that was a lie, he did not wonder, he _knew_ that's what he should do.  But the thought of asking for the things he wanted, perhaps sometimes getting them, was so delicious, so tempting ...

"And I could ask for whatever I want?"  Erasmus asked wistfully, "Whenever I want?  As often as I want?"

"You are so hesitant to accept this," he answered, almost laughing, "Do you mean to take advantage until I regret my generosity?"

Torveld looked smug.  Complacently, almost unbearably smug, in a way that silenced all of Erasmus's doubts, for no matter how unconventional the method, surely if a pleasure slave could put a look like _that_ on their master's face, their chief duty immediately became to do so as many times as possible.

Erasmus nodded solemnly.  "I'm going to _exhaust_ you," he promised.

Then he pounced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was a ... completely unplanned hiatus of over a year. Sorry, everyone. I actually started working on the first part of this chapter right after posting the last one, and then I just hit a really bad slump. I will try my best to keep to a reasonable update schedule going forward.
> 
> Splitting the chapter into two parts because there's actually not much left, but I had planned to end this one on a little bit of a cliffhanger, and I don't want to post that until I have the next chapter written too *just in case* I lose the thread for thirteen months again. (I will not do that again.)
> 
> Hope you like this one. I have a tumblr at @covertius-fic now, come say hi!


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